


Speak Softly but Carry a Big Stick

by My_Alter_Ego



Series: Love or Lust [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alter Egos, F/M, Facades, Kinks, Rough Sex, Stalking, Venezia | Venice, need for revenge, perplexing romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 13:44:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16265411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: This story takes place pre-series before Neal was ever arrested. However, during those early years, he had come into Sara Ellis’ crosshairs because of the theft of Rafael’s “St. George and the Dragon.” This encounter could have occurred during that timeframe, and may have set the tone for their complicated  relationship down the road.





	Speak Softly but Carry a Big Stick

Sara Ellis was a woman on a mission. Even as a young girl growing up in a nondescript little town in the boondocks, she had been driven to excel at everything she did. She was determined to rise like cream to the top in a man’s world, and no one had better get in her way. So, even though she never attended an elite ivy-covered college, the local university helped her to find her passion—art and everything which that vast, exclusive world entailed. It was really the starting point that she used to find her niche which would later be transformed into the task of recovering stolen artwork, along with other valuable items when they went astray.

So, an avid and persistent woman relocated to the Big Apple where the action was. She kept herself whippet thin, pulled her auburn hair back severely, and wore power suits as she toiled to make a name for herself as a recovery agent. She reinforced her hard exterior by carrying a retractable asp, and she didn’t hesitate to use that baton on suspected thieves who didn’t take her seriously. She refused to date the multitude of alpha males in her circle who might try to exploit her. She was much too smart for that, and she scoffed at their snide remarks that she was a ball-buster, or even a lesbian. She had a tough shell, and doggedly ignored their demeaning slurs.

Eventually, her well-earned reputation got her to an enviable position with an insurance company in New York City. She felt that she had finally arrived when the venerable firm of Sterling and Bosh took her on. They tactfully explained that her position was to be on a trial basis. She had to produce results, or she would be out of a job.

Sara was undaunted. With single-minded focus and non-stop effort, she blazed her trail of successes. She uncovered discretely hidden jewelry in safe deposit boxes, put there by the owners when they found themselves strapped for cash to keep up appearances. She tracked down a tricked-out but wayward Maserati in a private garage, and followed the money trail between the owner and the supposed car jacker. She located other more arcane treasures in cities around the globe, and her win statistics soared. Then one day, she was tasked with finding the Holy Grail—a 14th century Renaissance painting by Rafael that had previously hung in the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC. “St. George and the Dragon” was to be Sara’s ‘piece de resistance’—the ultimate feather in her cap when she recovered it.

Quite frequently during the course of her career, Sara liaisoned with the local authorities, and, on occasion if the prize was big enough, even with the FBI. She had struck up a working acquaintance with an agent by the name of Peter Burke who headed up the White Collar Division. Peter was always respectful and cooperative, and she very much admired his dedication which rivaled her own. So, when all her digging failed to get her a starting point in the Rafael case, she made an appointment to see him.

“We’re thinking the theft might have been orchestrated by a man named Neal Caffrey,” Peter informed her. “On the surface, he’s a slick, high-profile playboy, but we think he’s a lot of other things as well. We strongly suspect that he’s the mastermind behind numerous frauds, scams, money laundering schemes, as well as high-end forgeries and thefts. We just haven’t been able to nail his ass to the wall on those things yet. There were some unconfirmed reports by a few dubious snitches that he was hanging around DC in the days before that stupendous heist of the Rafael took place. My counterpart in the nation’s capital, Phil Kramer, is pulling out the few hairs he has left on his head in frustration.”

“Do you know where this Caffrey guy is now?” Sara asked.

“We’ve tried to keep track of his whereabouts,” Peter sighed, “but he has at least sixteen aliases that we know of and disappears like smoke. Interpol thinks they may have spotted him kicking around Europe, and the last possible sighting was in Florence, Italy. But that’s an unconfirmed rumor.”

“Do you think that I could get a list of those aliases, Peter?” Sara asked hopefully.

“Sure, I can share,” Peter said, “for all the good it might do you.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Sara immediately took herself to Rome. She was a networker, so he had contacts at the embassy who graciously got her an appointment with Italy’s version of Homeland Security. Peter Burke had given her a photo of the elusive Mr. Caffrey, and facial recognition got a hit when his handsome face showed up boarding a train in Florence bound for Venice in the north.

“Is this man a terrorist?” the government official eagerly wanted to know.

“No, he’s just a thief,” Sara answered.

“Unfortunately, Signora, we have plenty of those in our country,” the Italian shrugged drolly as he quickly lost interest.

So, Sara didn’t even unpack her bags as she followed her prey’s trail. Venice was lovely in all its splendor. Gondolas bobbed along the pier near San Marco Square, and the ever-present pigeons flocked to the small bistro tables beside the 13th century clock tower in the piazza. The impressive Venetian-Gothic style Doge’s Palace also took up much of the cobblestone square, standing like a bastion watching over its citizens and visitors. Sara decided to stay at the nearby Hotel Danieli, the most expensive accommodation in town because she thought that was where an ersatz playboy would stay. It would take a chunk of euros out of her nest egg, but it would be worth it if she spotted Caffrey. She lingered over small cups of strong coffee in the dining room each morning, and sat in the lobby sipping cappuccino and leafing through Italian fashion magazines in the afternoons to see if she could spot her man. She never even got a glimpse.

Well, hell,” she thought to herself, “I’m here, thousands of miles from home in a magnificent city, so why not enjoy my adventure instead of staying rooted to a chair?”

And that’s exactly what Sara did for the next two days, crossing over many of the city’s multitude of quaint bridges that spanned the Grand Canal and meandering down congested little side streets that connected unique and charming piazzas. She window-shopped, ate sumptuous pasta dishes, luscious calorie-laden desserts, and imbibed local wines. On her last afternoon, she happened upon Harry’s Bar on the Calle Valaresso. Its long history connected it to yesterday’s elite, and it was said that Ernest Hemingway was a frequent patron. She decided to stop in just to say that she had been there.

Sara took a small table in a darkened corner and ordered a Campari and soda. She was taking in the opulent ambience around her when she caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired man enter the establishment. He sauntered over to the bar and greeted the barman with obvious familiarity. When he slid onto a stool and glanced her way, Sara was astounded to see Neal Caffrey in the flesh. Sara quickly managed to produce a “come hither” coy smile, and Caffrey raised his glass to her in a silent salute while returning her smile. Sara’s heart did a little flip. My God, but he was handsome, tall and dark and mysterious-looking, all in one package. Then Sara felt a bit of exhilaration as he came off the bar stool, collected his drink, and strolled over to her table.

“May I be so bold as to join you,” he asked in a soft, pleasant voice.

“Of course,” Sara said with her own dazzling smile as she stared into aquamarine blue eyes framed by thick dark lashes. No man should be endowed with eyelashes like that, was her inane thought. No wonder he was a lady-killer.

“At the risk of this sounding cheesy, would you tell me why a lovely lady such as yourself is sitting all alone in this gin joint?” the gorgeous hunk asked softly.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Sara countered. “Are you perhaps waiting for someone?”

“No, I’m not waiting for anyone. How about you?” he asked as he raised his eyebrows in a question.

“Nope, not me.” Sara replied.

“Fortunately, now neither one of us is alone anymore,” Caffrey grinned charmingly.

As the silence lengthened and they sized each other up, it was Sara who finally caved in first. “My name is Claire Whitcomb,” she ad libbed, using her mother’s maiden name. “And you are?”

“Gary Rydell, at your service, my lady,” Caffrey answered smoothly.

Sara realized that Peter Burke and company had missed a few of Caffrey’s aliases. This one was not yet on his hit parade.

“I guess I may have been getting a little lonely,” Sara finally admitted shyly. “I thought it would be fun to indulge myself by coming to a country and a city that I had always dreamed of visiting. My tour of Italy has been a fun adventure, but maybe I’ve grown a bit homesick for a fellow American. Solitude isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“It does have its value, but it can become tedious,” Neal answered slowly. “Human beings are social creatures, whether they like to admit that fact or not.”

“So, what brought you to Venice, Gary?” Sara asked innocently with her eyes wide.

“I guess you could say it was a mixture of business and pleasure,” Neal adroitly fielded her question.

“What kind of business?” Sara pressed.

“I’m a bit of an entrepreneur, but that’s a very boring tale,” Neal quickly shut her down as he deftly changed the subject. “Are you sure you’ve seen everything this glorious city has to offer, Claire? If you’re free for the rest of the afternoon, why don’t we take a walk. If you haven’t been to the Palazzo Grassi yet, you’re missing out on a treat. Do you like art? If you do, you’ll love that museum with its modernistic pieces.”

“I’d love to go,” Sara said trying to hide her self-satisfied grin. She was on the hunt, and even if her prey was polite and attractive, he was still a crook.

They returned to the main square and then slowly strolled from room to room in the massive museum. At one point, Sara pushed the envelope. “Do you like contemporary art, Gary, or do you prefer the old masters?”

Neal looked at her with a little smile. “I’m a guy with eclectic tastes, Claire. I appreciate all kinds of art.”

Later, as the sun was setting, Neal insisted that they take a touristy ride on the Grand Canal. As the iconic gondolier, decked out in his black pants, stripped shirt and red waist sash, began to croon a classic Italian love song, Neal surprised Sara by joining in the serenade. He had a beautiful tenor voice, and Sara felt as if all of this wasn’t real and she was in some enchanted fairy tale.

Later, Neal took her to a miniscule restaurant tucked into an alcove, and she had the best bigoli in salsa she had ever tasted. Afterwards, as they strolled through the dusky night, they shared small cups of gelato bought from a street vendor. He finally delivered her to the lobby of the Hotel Danieli, and Sara decided to be bold and brash. She was suddenly afraid that Caffrey might disappear into the ether if she let him out of her sight, so she coyly asked him to spend the night.

Neal cocked his head and studied her for a long minute before asking, “Are you sure that is what you want, Claire?”

“I know I’m being impetuous and giddy, and maybe even a bit needy,” Sara summoned up an embarrassed expression. “But, yes, this is what I want.”

Caffrey suddenly had her riveted to the spot as his blue eyes stared into hers with laser intensity. He finally broke the spell by looking up at the huge hotel that was a beehive of activity with people coming and going. “I think you may find that my accommodations are a bit quieter and more intimate. Want to take a look and decide for yourself? You can always change your mind if it doesn’t seem comfortable for you.”

Caffrey might be playing the considerate gentleman by giving her a way out of the situation if she chose to rethink her impulsive action. Then Sara reminded herself that this was his modus operandi. Get the mark to trust you, then lower the boom before they ever saw it coming. But Sara could play the game, too, maybe even better than he could. So, she nestled her hand in the crook of the arm that he offered and set out to find the whereabouts of that Rafael.

Caffrey led her through serpentine, dark streets until Sara felt disoriented. A little flutter of apprehension made her stomach twist. She slowly eased her free hand down into her huge purse and gripped the handle of her baton tightly. Peter Burke had never said a word about Caffrey being dangerous, but she definitely felt at risk. But then, he abruptly stopped in front of a small, unpretentious two-story building with flickering candles in the window. Caffrey led the way through the charming vestibule to the stairs. His room at the top of those steps was small, but immaculate and cozy with Old World antiques arranged tastefully within the interior.

“This is sort of a hidden boutique establishment,” Caffrey explained. “The old owner and his wife are friends of mine who graciously welcome me whenever I’m in the city.”

“It must be nice to have friends like that,” Sara murmured.

“Yes,” he agreed, “I am very fortunate. Now, tell me, am I going to make a new friend tonight, or are you suddenly going to pull that gun or knife out of your purse? Whatever it is has been lodged in your hand since we set out tonight.”

“Well, a girl can’t be too careful,” Sara smirked. “And it isn’t a gun or a knife,” she clarified as she pulled out her baton and placed it on the bed.

Neal moved closer and peered into the yawning opening of her satchel. His nimble fingers smoothly extricated a set of handcuffs.

“Ah, so the shy little minx is really a lusty dominatrix,” Caffrey remarked with a lascivious grin.

“Does that scare you?” Sara challenged.

“Oh, Sweetheart, it takes a lot more than that to scare me,” he confidently responded.

~~~~~~~~~

The sex that night was hot, hard, and punishing, and each participant gave as good as they got. Sara had left a multitude of scratches and bite marks over Caffrey’s finely-chiseled body, but he hadn’t adorned her’s with even the slightest blemish. At one point during their frisky tryst, she secured his hands to the old, iron headboard with her handcuffs. Sitting astride his thighs, she loomed over his torso with her baton in hand.

The cheeky playboy/suspected thief simply gave her a sardonic smile. “Let me assure you that I can get out of these things in a heartbeat.”

“Well, maybe I’ll have to distract you from that feat by shoving this up your ass,” Sara threatened as she waggled the baton in front of his face.

Caffrey shrugged. “Perhaps I might enjoy that. How about you? If I returned the gesture, would that turn you on as well?”

Sara simply dropped her weapon and positioned herself over his hard cock to distract the leering bastard in another way.

Sara’s plan was to wear Caffrey out, and when he was in a satiated stupor fast asleep from their marathon of kinky sex, she’d search his belongings. Well, her plan backfired. She was the one who collapsed beside his warm body and didn’t awaken until she smelled the alluring aroma of fresh coffee.

“I come bearing gifts,” Caffrey smiled at her tenderly. “The Italians brew a nectar comprised of high-octane caffeine, and I thought you might appreciate something to jump-start the day.”

“Do we have plans that require me to be operating on all cylinders?” Sara asked curiously.

“Definitely,” he replied mysteriously.

~~~~~~~~~~

After breakfast, Neal led Sara down to the pier where they boarded a vaporetto, or water ferry, bound for the tiny island of Murano. They spent the entire morning watching skilled artisans create masterpieces of uniquely colored blown glass using techniques that dated back to the early 13th century. A spokesperson on site enlightened the visitors about the nature of the unique Venetian craft and its historical origins. Neal translated the rapidly spoken Italian for Sara, explaining how the colors of deep blue, ruby red, and pale yellow were obtained by mixing various minerals such as cobalt, copper, and gold. The showroom held ornate treasures that included pieces of jewelry, water and wine goblets, vases, and even intricate and dazzling chandeliers. Neal purchased a delicate necklace with a tiny replica of the lion found on the bell tower in St. Mark’s Square. It represented the iconic emblem of the Venetian state.

“I think this suits your personality,” he teased.

When they returned in the afternoon to Venice, they strolled hand in hand over the “Bridge of Sighs” on their way to the Doge’s Palace. This particular bridge was really a narrow enclosed corridor with tiny windows on both sides.

“I read in the guide book,” Sara began, “that this is called “The Bridge of Sighs” because condemned criminals were paraded through here on their way to the dark and dank prisons below the Palace. They would sigh as they took their last glimpse of freedom and the beautiful lagoon before they were shut away to serve out their sentences in cells from which there was no escape.”

“There’s always a way to escape,” Neal said confidently. “Now let me tell you a bit of trivia. The Doge’s Palace as you will see contains a collection of magnificent art. Unbelievably, the only art theft from the Doge's Palace was executed on October 9th of 1991 by an intrepid soul named Vincenzo Pipino. He hid in one of the cells in the prison after lagging behind a tour group, then crossed the Bridge of Sighs in the middle of the night to the Sala di Censori. In that room was the _Madonna col bambino_ , a work symbolic of ‘the power of the Venetian state’ painted in the early 1500s by a member of the Vivarini school. By the next morning, it was in the possession of the Mala del Brenta crime group.”

“It almost sounds as if you admire that thief,” Sara remarked.

“I always admire ingenious work in any field,” Neal answered. “By the way, you never told me what your particular area of expertise entails.”

“Oh, I have a boring desk job in New York,” Sara said breezily.

“Really?” Caffrey said with raised eyebrows.

“Yes, really,” Sara lied as convincingly as she could.

“I’ll wager that it’s not always boring.” Neal’s accompanying smile raised gooseflesh for just a second on Sara’s arms. It was almost as if Caffrey was slyly toying with her, but then she quickly dismissed that misgiving. There was no way he could know her true identity.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Doge’s Palace was magnificent--a cornucopia of artwork in the form of vast murals on the walls and ceiling, sculptures, and individual painting that were created by the masters of antiquity.

“See anything you’d like to take home as a souvenir?” Sara asked curiously.

“Many, many things,” Caffrey assured her, “but nothing that would fit into my suitcase, I’m afraid.”

The afternoon was waning, so they leisurely browsed in the shops that ringed St. Mark’s Square. It seemed that every one offered the Carnival masks for which Venice is noted. Today’s replicas of what had been worn by the elite and powerful throughout Venice’s history were made of a combination of gesso and gold leaf, and many were adorned with feathers and gems. Sara was fascinated, but the prices were quite steep.

“Pick one,” Neal urged. “Don’t look at the price. Just decide which one speaks to you.”

Sara chose a decidedly feminine-looking one with pouting red lips, kohl ringed cat-like eyes, and a fanciful purple feather attached. There was a superimposed second smaller mask atop the white gesso one painted in gold with ornate swirls. Neal picked up a less complicated mask with silver lips and additional silver tattooing down the cheeks. He held it up to his face and added a black felt tricorn hat on his head.

“That’s so you, Gary, and it makes you look like a wayward wastrel,” Sara cooed.

“I’ll bow to your discriminating tastes,” Neal answered as he took out a stack of euros from his pocket and purchased the set.

Later that night when they had shed their clothes, Neal held up their new purchases. “Let’s wear these tonight,” he said slowly.

“Seriously?” Sara asked. “We’re buck naked, but you want us to wear masks. Do you like to pretend that much, Gary?”

“Pretending to be someone else has its appeal,” Neal replied softly. “C’mon, Claire, let’s not be who we really are tonight. Let’s be two different people for just a little while.”

Sara felt those goosebumps return because this was getting complicated and a bit weird. Nevertheless, she donned her mask as did Caffrey, and maybe the anonymity added to the mystery and the intrigue because their night of passion took them to new heights. Sara was sure that some of what they did in that bed was illegal in many states back home, but it was also oddly exhilarating.

~~~~~~~~~~

It seemed as if Sara had just closed her eyes when she was urged awake by Caffrey. “C’mon, sleepyhead, we need to get an early start for today’s adventure.”

“What adventure would that be?” Sara asked groggily.

“It’s a surprise,” Neal laughed.

“I’m not really a surprise sort of girl, Gary. Give me a hint,” Sara whined.

“Just be a good sport and come with me,” Neal pushed.

The surprise started out with a short trip on a vaporetto to the Lido mainland where a sporty red Alfa Romeo convertible awaited them in a parking lot. With Neal at the wheel, they tooled along the autostradas at a fast clip. Sara’s scarf had slipped off her head and her long hair was being buffeted by the wind. She felt free and alive, like a young Audrey Hepburn in the classic movie, “ _Roman Holiday_.”

After almost four hours, Neal slowed down as they entered the charming resort town of Stresa nestled on the banks of Lake Maggiore, a deep glacier formation that separated the northern Lombardy region of Italy from Switzerland. The majestic Alps could be seen in the distance. They enjoyed a light lunch at a trattoria located on a scenic overlook, and Sara was dismayed when a light afternoon rain began to fall.

“Darn, the sun was just shining, and now it’s about to pour buckets,” Sara pouted.

“It’s perfect,” Neal said mysteriously, causing Sara to give him a puzzled look.

Eventually, he turned to her and asked a strange question. “Have you ever read or perhaps know the story depicted in a novel by Ernest Hemingway entitled _“A Farewell to Arms?”_

“Unless it was made into a movie, I probably don’t,” she admitted.

Neal shrugged, “Well, I read it when I was much younger, and it held a lot of meaning for me then and it still does.”

“Why don’t you fill an uninformed non-reader in,” Sara cajoled, wondering where this was going.

“Well, if you really want to hear the details, I’ll give you the Cliff Notes version,” Neal answered slowly. “Hemingway centered the plot of his story around the Italian campaign of the first World War. His main protagonist, Frederic Henry, is an American ex-pat serving as a lieutenant in the Italian army. He drives an ambulance, and most of the first part of the book is seeing the war through his eyes—its ravages upon men from bullets and rampant epidemics. At some point in the story, our hero meets his soulmate, an English nurse named Catherine. Their time together is sporadic because of the skirmishes of the raging war, but she does become pregnant with his child.

Not long afterwards, the Austro-Hungarians break through the Italian lines in a bloody battle that turns the tide against Italy. Due to a slow and chaotic retreat, Henry and his men get separated from their unit, and when they are later found by the Italian authorities, they are accused of treason and desertion and face death by a firing squad. Henry manages to escape, grabs Catherine who has been waiting right here in Stresa, and they make a valiant rainy dash in a rowboat across this lake to a safe haven in Switzerland.

In the final section of the book, Frederic and Catherine live a quiet life in the mountains, and they are finally happy and fulfilled because they have each other and have created a new life within Catherine’s womb. They now have so much to live for, and it finally gives Frederic, who always seemed to be searching for something, hope and peace. He has found where he needs and wants to be. Eventually, the woman whom he has come to adore goes into labor. After a long and painful birth, their son is stillborn, and Catherine begins to hemorrhage and soon dies.”

“Wow, that’s a downer,” Sara whispered. “And you actually liked that book?”

“Yeah, I did because it made a deep impression on me at a time in my life that was very chaotic,” Neal admitted. “Hemingway never pulled any punches. His characters were all flawed in some way. They were either running away from something or searching for validation and salvation. He’s not exactly a Nicholas Sparks kind of author. But he did put a ton of symbolism into his books. In “ _A Farewell to Arms_ ,” it was the rain that was always a harbinger of some impending horror that you couldn’t stop. Perhaps, Hemingway wanted to get the point across that tragedy can fall as randomly and unstoppably as rain, and you can’t escape it. In every one of the horrendous battle scenes, it was raining, and his hero remarks that 7,000 soldiers succumbed in the rain from cholera. And, the night that Catherine died, Hemingway ended his novel with these words spoken by a broken man: ‘ _It was like saying good-by to a statue. After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain.’_

Of course it’s very easy to pick up on the double entendre about the word, ‘arms.’ Arms was a metaphor for military weapons, but in the final scene, poor Frederic had to say a last farewell to Catherine’s arms.”

Finally, Neal had wound down and was staring at Lake Maggiore with pensive eyes.

Sara looked at his handsome profile, and found herself wondering at the depth of this man beside her. He was a true enigma. Finally, she whispered softly, “Gary Rydell, I think you’re a hopeless romantic.”

~~~~~~~~~~

When they came together that night, Neal took the initiative. He hovered above Sara, holding her hands down on the mattress as he made slow, sweet, and gentle love to her. He placed soft, butterfly kisses on her eyebrows and eyelids, and sucked on the lobes of her ears before licking stripes down her neck. He tantalizingly worked his way down to her breasts, and then her stomach, until he was finally nipping at her flaring hipbones. Then his head descended between her thighs. Sara felt wonton as she arched up and moaned in pleasure, and her orgasms that night were perhaps more intense than any that had occurred during the rough sex. It made Sara wonder if Caffrey had just initially acquiesced to her wishes, but this was the type of love-making that he much preferred.

Sara slept like a contented kitten that night, and it was the slanting rays of a new day coming through the window louvers that awakened her. She sat up and realized that she was alone in the room. On the pillow next to her was an obviously old and well-read copy of “ _A Farewell to Arms_.” When she picked it up, a small yellow flower fell into her lap. With curious fingers, she unfolded the origami petals to find a message written inside.

“ _Sadly, Sara, we can only be other people for a very short time. Love, Neal.”_

 “Son of a bitch!” Sara actually screamed out loud. Caffrey had known who she was from the start! He was probably dogging her steps from the time she had arrived in Venice, just waiting for his chance to play his ridiculous game of charades. Sara felt mortified, embarrassed, and beyond angry. She was a scorned woman who had been manipulated by a slick con artist, and nothing about him was real. Well, one day she would take her revenge and it wouldn’t be pretty. It would be a “show no mercy, take no prisoners” vendetta for her. She would get her man as well as wrench that Rafael out of his slippery, fuckin’ hands.

Suddenly, a panicked Sara bolted from the bed in search of her handbag. She breathed out a sigh of relief when she found that her passport and her wallet were still there, as well as her stash of euros and her American Express Gold Card. So were her handcuffs and her baton.

~~~~~~~~~~

Several years later, her attitude hadn’t mellowed. After Peter Burke had finally managed to corral the forger for some fake bonds, she made herself available as a witness for the prosecution at his trial. She sat up in that box next to the judge and rained down her hate, calling him a bastard and a thief and a lot of other derogatory and accusatory words. In her head, she had prepared herself for Caffrey’s lawyer to cross examine her testimony. Surely, he would try to impugn every one of her statements because he would bring up their three-day romantic liaison and make her appear to be a vindictive former lover. She was ready for that, and didn’t intend to lie under oath. Whatever they were for three days in Venice did not change what Neal Caffrey was day after day.

To her surprise, Caffrey’s attorney said he had no questions for her, and as she tried to walk past the defense table with every shred of dignity she could manage, she couldn’t help but steal a quick glance at Caffrey. He didn’t look smug or angry. The little smile on his face actually looked a bit sad and melancholy, and that threw Sara for a loop. It seemed unlikely, but maybe Neal Caffrey really did have a hopelessly romantic soul in that beautiful chest of his.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Next part coming soon.


End file.
